by Sally Orr
“I don’t believe you.”
The marquess chuckled. “I have my reasons for you to wed Miss Mountfloy. I have become very attached to the young lady, and I do not want to see her hurt. Blame it on the sentimentality of old age, if you must.”
Boyce’s heartbeat began to race. “What do you mean by the word hurt? What do you know of her feelings?”
“I’m not aware of her feelings in the least. I only know my own.” The marquess pulled a rolled up newspaper from his coat pocket. “Turn to page six and read the article on the bottom of the page.”
Boyce snatched the paper from his father’s grasp and read voraciously. The story described a ballooning accident and the death of the aeronaut. One sentence in particular stopped his heartbeat. He mumbled and read the words again aloud. “The aeronaut landed in a flower garden, his body driven into the earth.” His wild mind raced to the thought of Eve meeting a similar fate. He became light-headed before blinding panic seized him. He stared at his father, holding his arms out. “Ah!”
“I don’t understand.” The marquess tilted his head.
“That’s it! The very second. When the mere allusion to a person’s death is unbearable, that’s the moment you realize you are in love.”
The marquess did not answer. Instead, he sat in the tub chair, holding his watch fob, and gazing tenderly at the rock crystal containing a finely crafted latticework of his wife’s auburn hair.
Only now did Boyce understand the pain his father must have felt over his mother’s death. If his heart broke with just the thought of Eve’s death, how could his father summon the fortitude to continue his existence? How could a person remain alive with a heart broken by the death of a beloved spouse?
“Yes,” the marquess whispered, “that is an unfortunate way to realize the full extent of your affections.” He dropped the fob, brushed his trousers with one hand, and faced Boyce. “Of course, I knew you were in love with Miss Mountfloy the first minute I saw you together at the priory. For all the teasing you receive from others, you really don’t sing that often. Only when you are truly happy.”
“So the reason I felt like singing all of the time at the priory was because of love?”
“You sang almost every time I witnessed you in Miss Mountfloy’s presence. And if my knowledge of the fair sex has not failed me yet, she feels the same about you. I believe the two of you were besotted with each other without knowing it, or at least, you were unaware. Still, your obvious admiration made conversation in the presence of the two of you a little awkward, what?”
“I acknowledge my love for the lady, but I do not believe she returns my regard.” He paused, remembering the warmth in her eyes on the floor in front of the fire. “How can she be in love with me if she refuses to cancel her engagement? I mean how can she even considering marrying that inconsequential, niffy-naffy, oafish toothpick?”
“I do not have the wisdom of Lord Chesterfield, but I do understand that you can never know a person’s motivations for their actions. The lady is intelligent, so she must have her reasons. You must be generous and allow her to keep her purpose behind marrying Mr. Henry private.”
Boyce rubbed his itchy whisker growth, struggling to understand how he was going to persuade her to marry him instead.
“Have you told her that you love her?”
A bout of coughing overtook him. “How could I tell her if I didn’t know the full extent of my love until a second ago?” He stilled. While he didn’t recognize it at the time, in hindsight, the moment stared him straight in the face. It was the moment he had called her beautiful. Beautiful—not pretty. Pretty was the word he used for all women. But he called Eve beautiful. “What do I…how do I…when do I…demonstrate my love?”
His father laughed. “Oh no, you must tell her yourself, but not in a letter”—he smiled—“not by singing, but by honest, sincere words. And because you are the gentleman, you must reveal your feelings first and risk the consequences that she might not feel the same. And whether or not she reciprocates your affections, you must grant her the privacy of her decision.”
Boyce suspected Eve loved him. She had said the words to him in front of the fire during a moment of passion. But how she would respond to his earnest declaration of love, he had no idea—no idea because he didn’t fully understand her meaning behind the word duty. With a groan, he rose to pace in front of the mantel. “I never realized females had so many variables. Ha! Did you hear me say that? I used the word variable, just like Eve, funny that.”
“I can well imagine it. Because of your natural good looks, not inherited from me, unfortunately, you’ve had too easy a time with the fairer sex. As a consequence, you are spoiled. Therefore, you must summon the fortitude of your ancestors, men known for their bravery in battle and showing the courage to stand tall, even when outnumbered in front of a rushing horde. I’ve said it many times before, but that is the type of men we Parkers are and why our family motto is Stand fast.”
Boyce rolled his eyes. “You’re being gothic.”
His father burst out laughing, a rare moment for the marquess. “When you grow older, you will be gothic too. It’s part of being an English gentleman of a certain age, no doubt.”
Boyce looked down at the newspaper again. “I may never get the chance to tell her that I love her. Something horrible—I cannot bear the thought.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, the papers said her father planned a balloon ascension for today. I assume Eve will join him. It’s the first flight since the crash, and it will be carried out using their newly repaired balloon. I mean what if it was not repaired properly? What if the silk tears during the ascent? What—”
His father straightened. “Now I’m quite worried about that young lady. You must stop her from getting into the basket now and forever. Pull her out of the basket if you have to.”
Boyce smiled and shook his head. “I cannot do that. It’s her life’s wish to prove females can contribute to the pursuit of knowledge. My fears for her safety are not reason enough for her to end that dream and ask her to step out of the basket.”
“Wasn’t it enough that she demonstrated female worth when she gave a successful afternoon lecture at Royal Institute?”
“Perhaps. But you were right earlier when you said I had to think of what I might offer her, and I must do it quickly.” He stood and grabbed his coat. Even if Eve refused him, he must tell her of his love and that she would always have it. “Regardless of whatever assistance I may provide, I cannot force her to accept me. She has to be the one to decide. By your analogy, she must be the one to take that step out of the basket.”
Boyce asked his father to show himself out, ran upstairs to his room, tidied himself up as best he could, and then flew downstairs. Thank the inky heavens above that love is blind. His collar, waistcoat, and cravat had been set to rights, and he even managed a quick, if not thorough, shave of his troublesome beard. All of these ablutions he completed in fifteen minutes. His appearance failed to meet his usual standards, but he hoped his efforts were sufficient to propose to the woman he loved. Hopefully, if equally blinded by love, she should be able to forgive him for the current, deplorable state of his coat.
When he reached the first-floor landing, his father surprised him in the vestibule. “If you do not mind, I will join you on your journey.”
“I prefer privacy.” Boyce struggled into his coat, hiding his irritation. What sane gentleman wanted his father to witness his proposal? Eve had been as slippery as an eel when he mentioned the subject of her engagement before, so she might even do the unthinkable and refuse him.
The marquess chuckled. “I doubt you will find privacy around a balloon preparing for ascension.”
His father’s point rang true, although he really did not want to contemplate an audience for his declaration. “All right, then.”
Befor
e the duo headed for the stables, Drexel opened the front door and entered. “Ah, decided to join the living?” He caught sight of the marquess. “Beg your pardon, Lord Sutcliffe. I didn’t see you behind this great lump here.”
“George, I am delighted to see you again. I certainly thank you for the hospitality your family has shown my youngest lump.” The over-wide grin on the marquess’s face, normally marked by numerous lines of experience, caused him to appear like a much younger man.
“Youngest lump?” Boyce spun to glance at his father. The pater joking? The world must be coming to an end. He pointed. “You made a jest.”
His father ignored him.
“And you,” Boyce said, addressing Drexel, “have been gone for weeks. I thought you must’ve abandoned that bridge and attempted a last chance effort to win the earl’s race.”
“No, the bridge is still in the works, but my father and mother needed my assistance. Besides, haven’t you noticed the city of London is empty of young gentlemen?”
“Um, I don’t understand.” Boyce coughed, wondering if his days spent in his cups had affected his brain.
The marquess whispered to Drexel. “Inebrious lump for days.”
“So I heard.” Drexel laughed. “Explains his coat. Look at yourself, Whip. You let your standards down.”
Boyce waved Drexel away from the hallway. “I am not going to stand here and listen to the two of you. I have plans for today, so you must excuse me.”
Drexel stepped aside. “What’s this rush all about then?”
The marquess winked at Drexel. “This day is a significant one in Boyce’s life.”
Boyce snatched his hat and gloves from the pier table in the vestibule. “Enough!”
Drexel leaned close to Boyce’s father’s ear. Then in a fake whisper, he loudly said, “Grumpy too.”
The marquess’s eyes gleamed. “In this day of Boyce’s life, you might even say his very life is at stake. But it’s a day every man, even you, George, must eventually face.”
“Hmm,” Drexel ruminated. “I doubt it. Whatever it is, I plan to avoid it, because just look at what it’s done to him.”
Boyce damned his shaking hands; closing the last button on his waistcoat seemed impossible. “Yes, yes, all very well. You two have had your dramatic moment. Now I must leave immediately—preferably alone. There is something I must do.”
Drexel looked at the marquess. “I’ll wager you know what this is. Tell me.”
“Let’s just say his future happiness is at stake.”
“I’ve had enough of you two.” Boyce closed the buttons on his coat.
The marquess laughed. “Do you think you’ll have steady hands, George, on the day you openly declare your love to a woman?”
“No! Well, I’ll be damned. I am too old for that fustian, sir.” He shuffled awkwardly about. “I’m made of different stuff altogether. Troublesome things, females—not like a bridge—all emotions a fellow can never understand.”
Boyce did a final check of his appearance in the pier glass next to the door. “I cannot offer marriage to the woman I love dressed like this.” He turned and held out his hands. “Look at me. Stains on every piece of clothing and half-shaven. She’ll run away at first sight.”
“Yes, I would if I were her. You’re very ugly,” Drexel said.
“You could come home,” the marquess said, “and have your man do a proper job of it. Of course, Miss Mountfloy’s ascension may take place before you are finished.” He lifted an eyebrow.
Boyce’s heartbeat began to gallop. “I’m wasting my time. Where’s Charity?”
“Saw her in the stables when I arrived,” his father said. “George, are you ready?”
Ignoring his father and Drexel, Boyce headed downstairs in the direction of the mews.
A rushed twenty minutes later, and the three men galloped out of London, toward Islington.
Once they slowed to give their horses a rest, Boyce embraced his optimism created by the glorious, sunny day. How could she justly refuse his suit with such a beautiful world surrounding them? The sun warmed his face; the grass field shone that distinct bright green no paint could reproduce—the perfect backdrop for a song on a journey to propose to the woman you love. “‘The fair of my fancy whisk’d into the room, All lovely she look’d like a May morning’s bloom. Her form was, but forming a simile’s flat, think all that you can think, and she was all that.’”
Drexel twisted around to shout at the marquess. “Lord Sutcliffe, what do you think this foul songbird did with the money?”
The marquess brought his horse up even with the two men. “I beg your pardon, George, I don’t understand. What money?”
“The money you gave him for the voice tutor.”
“Ha, ha,” Boyce said. “Very amusing.” He refused to let anything dampen his spirits. “Drexel, the day you tell a funny jest is the day rocking horses poop.”
“Jingle brains.”
“Dulpickle.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the marquess said as they turned down Frog Lane.
Boyce once again found himself surrounded by vegetable gardens. Up ahead, he could see a crowd gathered around the wooden platform built for balloon launches. Nothing seemed to have changed from last month. A young boy and Mr. Henry fiddled with barrels and tubes, while Mr. Mountfloy stood in the basket and shouted directions. He didn’t see Eve at first, but when they grew near, he noticed her in the basket fiddling with the ballast bags.
With his first sight of her in the balloon, Boyce feared he might be ill.
His father chuckled. “You should see your face, Son. It’s the color of white soup. I knew you failed to understand my point about courage. What you are about to do takes courage, because now you risk your life’s happiness, and failure here is irreversible too.”
Drexel whistled. “There is no possible way for you to steal a private moment. All I can say is, it takes bollocks to declare yourself in front of a crowd. And from the looks of the rabble in front of us, a large number of people will more than likely thoroughly enjoy your declaration.”
Twenty-three
Eve distinctively heard her father swear. She stood up to discover him shielding his eyes from the sun and looking into the distance. Glancing past the crowd and the vegetable field in front of her, she saw three men on horseback approaching the platform.
“Looks like that lordship of yours has come to witness our flight. I hope he has no intention of interfering with our research again.”
Eve gulped and focused on the three men. At this distance, she could not identify any of the riders, other than getting the impression that they were gentlemen. “How do you know it’s Lord Boyce approaching the platform?”
He ignored her and continued to scowl at the riders.
She forgot her preparations for the ascension and strained to identify the three men. It did not take long before she realized her father was right. Parker was indeed one of the horsemen, along with another large, tall man she had never seen before and his father, the marquess.
The three gentlemen dismounted, tied their horses next to the others, and then strode through the grass. They stepped onto the corner of the wooden platform, a mere ten feet away from her.
Charles Henry approached Parker. “Your lordships must leave this instant.”
“Yes, yes,” Parker said, smiling, “just a word with Miss Mountfloy for a minute, and then we’ll be on our way.”
“I urge you to leave now.” Charles Henry glanced at Eve, scowled, and addressed Parker again in a lowered voice. “You have repeatedly stolen the acknowledgments rightly owed to me. If you don’t leave here immediately, I will take measures to ensure your reputation as an honest man is ruined forever.”
Parker and the other man wore frowns and stepped close to Charles Henry.
The marquess rose his brow.
Charles Henry continued to address Parker in a voice too low for Eve to hear.
Eve could not take her eyes off Parker. Their lovemaking had created days and days of the utmost despondency. No longer cherishing any hope of finding happiness with the man she loved, she clung to the knowledge that, with time, she might become a suitable, more good-humored wife for Charles Henry. Now she stood mute, drinking up the rich sight of Parker standing before her. She greedily committed it to memory and stored it alongside so many others: she’d never forget him.
“I hope for the sake of our experiments today,” her father said, leaning forward to hear the men’s conversation, “their lordships are not going to interfere with our flight. I am going to find out what this is all about.” Her father stepped out of the balloon and joined the four men in heated conversation.
Then Charles Henry said something, and the blood drained from Parker’s face.
The large, tall man Parker called Drexel became restless and appeared to be barely restraining himself. “That’s blackmail, sir.”
“You will do no such thing,” her father shouted to Charles Henry. “No account of her speech will be told to the newspapers. We do not want to lose the precious support we gained that evening.”
“But the man is a failure, sir,” Charles Henry yelled in reply. “To this day, he takes credit for giving a successful speech when he obviously did not. He’s done this before, taking credit where it is not due. It’s wrong, and he must be exposed as a fraud. Of course, I wish no harm to your daughter, but the truth must come out. She did behave in a scandalous manner by stepping onto the stage that evening, so she must bear the consequences too. Surely even you do not believe a gentleman’s daughter should speak before the public.”
All of the gentlemen started shouting at each other.
Eve could hardly believe Charles Henry, a man who claimed her as his fiancée, would expose her to censure and scandal. Perhaps she heard wrong, because she knew him to be an honorable man, but his threat did not sound honorable in the least.